A Merry Mix Up: A Memoir

By Vern Phillips

Air-raid sirens shatter the silence, bombs explode, shots are fired, and people run in every direction screaming. It is 1940 and World War II is raging in and around Calcutta, India. In the midst of all this chaos, a little infant is born. His name is Vern Phillips, the author. He was the eighth born in a family of twelve children.
Vern takes us on a rollercoaster ride as he and his family struggle to survive both poverty and the war. Along the way, he shines the light on what it's like to live in a large, low income family and to manoeuvre through all the personal adversities that he had to overcome. Not the least of these was an in-house issue that led to verbal and physical abuse.
Vern Phillips shares his poignant stories of growing up in India, as he went from childhood to adulthood. Along the way he learned the meaning and value of service to others.
As a young school teacher, he wanted to migrate to a country that offered a higher standard of living where he could live and raise a family in peace and happiness. And so in 1969 he migrated to Canada, a country he loves and calls home today. But settling in to his new home had its challenges.
His narratives will move you to both laughter and tears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Feb 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228807216

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A Merry Mix Up

Copyright © 2019 by Vern M. Phillips

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-0720-9 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-0719-3 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-0721-6 (eBook)

Dedication

This memoir is dedicated to my family: my wife Ginette, our four wonderful children—Serge, Zoë, Val, and Vince; and our six dearly beloved grandchildren—Jonathan, Benjamin, Brennan, Sophia, Lily, and Charlotte (Charlie). Each one of you shines a brilliant ray of sunshine into my life. I am truly blessed.

Duane, Jenn, and Marjorie are most welcome additions, through marriage, to my happy family. I love all of you, just as I love my own children. You, too, add to my abundant treasury of blessings.

And to Aiden, our beloved grandson, whom God had deemed was too good to walk this earth and for whom He had other plans in Heaven.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

In the Beginning

Early Childhood

Life in a Large Family

Big Brother Rendle

The Black Sheep

Calcutta Under Siege

India’s Struggle for Independence

The Family Relocates

Chapter Two

Sunday School

Education

Off to Boarding School

Wynberg-Allen Schools

A Public Flogging and Expulsion

Hospitalized

Trinity College, London

Friends for Life

Dreams of Australia

A Phys. Ed. Teacher?

La Martiniere College

The Frank Anthony Public School

Home for Christmas

Teachers’ College8

Danger at Dusk

A Close Encounter

Teachers’ College Winds Down

Cupid Strikes

My Professional Career Begins

Chapter Three

My First Marriage

Meeting My Maker—Almost!

Sam and the Buffalo

The Passing of an Era

Chapter Four

A Life-Changing Decision

Principalship Offered

Canada Bound

Early Days in Canada

The Letter of Standing

Back to Job Hunting

Job Interview

My First Car

An Accidental Job Offer

Qualifications Evaluation

Life-Changing Decisions

Chapter Five

Immigritis

Canada, Please!

Sponsoring Family

A New Single Home

Me? Gun-Running?

Carl and Sam Arrive

Sam Leaves Us

Appointed Vice-Principal

Off the Rails and Onto the Rocks

Diabetes, the Bane of My Life

Chapter Six

My Second Marriage

Management Consulting

Algonquin College

Back to School Teaching

Chapter Seven

Early Retirement

Post-Retirement

Other Post-Retirement Activities

Joy and Grief

A Hectic and Tragic Year

Nanny Falls Ill

Chapter Eight

Travel

Feeling Torn

Some Concluding Thoughts

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

In the Beginning

In 1940 the world was in turmoil. It was a dangerous and chaotic place, ravaged by fighting, shooting, bombing, explosions, and general pandemonium: otherwise known as global warfare. World War II was shattering our planet. Given these horrendous conditions, anyone in his right mind would have wanted to postpone his entry into that alarming arena. But no, not I. On July 5, 1940, in the north-eastern town of Kharagpur, India, I made my heroic entry into the war-torn British colony while war raged on all around.

My arrival was a quiet affair. There were no angels singing on high or shepherds watching their flocks by night. There was just little ol’ me, entering the global stage, not with a bang but with a whimper. So, into those unpredictable conditions I arrived, bouncing along merrily. Needless to say, I just lay there kicking my little legs and exercising my new-found lungs. All the while, I was totally oblivious to the treacherous world around me. Dear Mom held me tight, kept me warm, and tried to breastfeed me.

The feeding was a bit of a challenge, even though I was ravenous. I hadn’t the faintest clue as to what my role was in the process. But Mother Nature took over and the instinct of self-preservation kicked in. Before long, I was nursing greedily like a little hungry puppy. And so continued the long-standing gastronomical history of the Phillips family. Our love of good food has been enshrined and handed down from generation to generation. The Phillips family loves food. In fact, some of them become so excited at the dining table that they take pictures of their meal and post it on Facebook; while others may burst into songs of joy at the table!

As a very young child, I had a different way of expressing my excitement for food—as Mom would often delight in telling family, friends, and neighbours. Apparently, when I was a little toddler, I had just been put onto a solid food diet. In those days, we did not have store-bought baby foods such as Pablum or Gerber. Traditionally, the first solid foods given to Indian babies back then were simple dahl (lentils) and plain white rice. Mom would place a small quantity of dahl and rice in a little bowl and give it to the servant girl, who took care of me when Mom was busy. The girl would take me out on our front verandah, sit me down in a little chair and start spoon-feeding me.

I would be happy as a lark until I saw that the bowl was down to the last spoonful. Then I would start screaming blue murder as if I was severely injured. After this happened a couple of times, Mom got the impression that the servant girl had been pinching my cheeks or something. So, she chastised her. The servant girl explained that as the bowl became empty, I would start to cry. She suggested that the next day Mom should observe me without being seen. And sure enough, that’s exactly what happened again. Mom quickly took the bowl, put a little more food in it and gave it back to the servant girl. Immediately the crying stopped, and I resumed eating with a big smile, while happily swinging my dangling little legs.

Mom enjoyed telling stories, and as I grew older, she would tell us stories about our grandparents and other relatives. That was how I learned I had mixed blood coursing through my veins. So, at a young age, I concluded that I was, indeed, a merry mix up as far as my ancestry is concerned. Of course, as the years went by, I stressed the merry aspect of my pedigree and downplayed the mix up component. The latter was merely a result of the times. I was not going to let that hold me back in any way. In fact, at a young age, I resolved to take great pride in my mixed heritage. It is something of which I am still very proud.

Actually, both my parents were themselves of mixed blood. My paternal grandfather was a British soldier of Welsh origin. He married an Indian lady. My maternal grandfather was French, and he took a lady of Dutch descent for his wife. Despite some opposition, it was not uncommon for interracial unions like this to take place at that time, since in the 1800’s and 1900’s, the British, French, Dutch, and Portuguese all had colonies in India.

It is believed that some racial groups actually encouraged their young men to marry local Indian girls. For instance, the Indian Rebellion of 1857 had the British running a little gun shy. So, it is said, they deliberately practised a form of ethnic engineering by encouraging their young men to marry young Indian ladies. Their aim was to create a mixed race that was more like them: one that spoke their language, had the same faith, customs, traditions, and even looked a lot like them.

This then created a whole new ethnic community known as Anglo-Indian. According to Indian tradition, an Anglo-Indian was classified as a person who was of British descent on the father’s side. In more recent times, however, that classification has been expanded to include anyone who has descended from European and Indian ancestors.

The British then entrusted these Anglo-Indians with positions of responsibility, particularly in the armed forces, railways, and post and telegraph departments. I believe they felt uncomfortable entrusting those roles to the native Indians who had rebelled against them once already. And so, positions of responsibility that were not occupied by the British were soon taken over by Anglo-Indians.

My dad, Burnett Phillips, was one such Anglo-Indian. He was born and raised in Madras (Chennai), and he was just fifteen years old when his mother passed away. This had a deep and lasting impact on him. He took it badly. A year later, when his dad wanted to remarry, my father burst into tears and declared that no woman could ever take his mother’s place. Soon after that he enlisted in the British Army. World War I (1914–1918) was in progress at the time and young able-bodied men were in short supply. So, without his father’s knowledge or approval, Dad joined the British Army. In those desperate times, the army took him at his word when he told them he was eighteen. He actually was just sixteen. With minimal training, he was then deployed to Iraq. He served there at about the same time as the famous Lawrence of Arabia was charging about the Arabian Peninsula on his camel as he engaged the Turks.

Little is known about Dad’s service in Iraq. He never really spoke about it. However, he served his time there and survived. After the war ended in 1918, the British Army sent him back home to India. He left Iraq with all his limbs and organs intact, a few medals for service and bravery, and with mental and emotional scars. He had also acquired two bad habits: smoking cigars and swearing like a drunken sailor! Those vices stayed with him to the end.

Back in India, Dad received an honourable discharge from the military and settled down in Madras. Subsequently, he signed on with the South Indian Railways as a boiler inspector. Those were the days of the good old steam engines. His job was to inspect the massive boilers on steam-driven locomotives to ensure their safety and proper operation. This job had him travelling around most of southern India. As a bachelor, he enjoyed that job because he got to travel all over the country. Sometimes he would have a layover for a day or two in some city or town while he waited for a locomotive to be repaired or for the next train to take him to his next job site.

While on one such layover, in the spring of 1923, Dad ended up spending Easter weekend in a delightful south Indian city called Bangalore. He said the sun shone brilliantly that Easter Sunday morning, and the heady aroma of jasmine wafted through the air. After asking around, Dad learned that there was only one church in the neighbourhood and it was Roman Catholic. He was a Methodist himself, but he was open-minded enough to attend Mass that Easter Sunday at the Catholic Church. This was fortuitous for Dad. It was here that he was smitten by a lovely young sixteen-year-old, named Lillian Gallyot.

Lillian, with lovely blue eyes that sparkled like diamonds, sang in the church choir with the voice of an angel from Heaven. Her long brown hair was braided, twisted and tied behind her head in a bun and her cheeks were flushed the colour of the pastel pink summer dress she wore. Dad was also dressed in his Sunday best. He wore a navy-blue, pin-striped, double-breasted suit, a white shirt, and a red-and-white striped tie. His raven black hair was well groomed, and his moustache was well trimmed. He still had his military bearing and gait. In essence, he presented quite an impressive figure: one that a teenage girl would easily have fallen in love with on sight.

Upon hearing and seeing the beautiful choir girl, Dad was immediately captivated and hooked for life. He only had eyes for her. Cupid had struck. So, after mass, Dad hung around and chatted with the parish priest. Discreetly, he enquired about that lovely girl who sang so beautifully in the choir, the one who sang a short solo part. Magical romance was in the air and our very own Romeo was completely enchanted by it. And so was she when Lillian and Burnett met for the very first time on the front steps of the church that Easter Sunday morning. And the rest, of course, is history.

I loved to hear Mom sing. She did have the voice of an angel. And she enjoyed singing too. It seemed to calm and relax her. Most of the time, while I was growing up, she was busy and on the go. Even on the rare occasions that she sat down, I could see that her mind was at work thinking about what she had to do next. Taking care of a big family must have been exhausting. But when she sang, it was as if all her cares and worries just melted away. Somewhere over the Rainbow was one of her favourite songs and at only five foot three, her presence seemed to grow in stature as she sang it. I would give anything to hear Mom sing again. Mom had beautiful olive skin which was soft and unblemished; her face was chubby and round, and her smile was contagious. As for her eyes—she had the most beautiful blue eyes, inherited, I suppose, from her European ancestors.

Dad was taller than Mom. He was about five foot seven, and would have weighed about 150 pounds. He was always on the slim side, though in later years he did develop a little pot belly. He had an oval face, with an unblemished tanned complexion, and nurtured a short-trimmed moustache. He also had a mop of raven black hair. Dad always maintained a serious, straight face. He rarely smiled, but when he did, his face would light up and I would see his softer, kinder, gentler side. He really looked dashing when he wore a jacket and tie. He also wore a broad army-style leather belt. Mel, Carl, and I sometimes felt a few lashes from that belt as a result of some mischief we had been up to. But when it came to my sisters, Dad never raised his hands or his belt to them. He may have raised his voice, but that was the extent of it.

Dad took great pride in his slender legs. So, of course, my siblings and I would delight in teasing him about how scrawny they were. His standard response to our teasing was Rubbish! You buggers don’t know a damn thing. These are f#@&ing race-horse legs! Then he would stick his legs out from under his chair and say, Look at them. These are bloody thoroughbred race-horse legs. We would laugh even louder. We used to get a kick out of teasing him.

Both Mom and Dad were kind and generous. Like most Indian people to this day, they would give you the shirt off their backs. And because of their kindness and generosity we, their children, often benefitted. People were good to us and, I think our parents’ benevolence rubbed off on us. As a teacher, my life has been dedicated to serving and helping others: values my parents instilled in us by example. I know that I have a hard time, to this day, when I see someone struggling or having difficulty. I have to at least offer to help, if I can. I have my parents to thank for showing me the importance of empathy, and the many other lessons we learned by seeing the way they lived.

People were good to us, but that does not mean my parents had it easy. In India, in the 1920s, mixed marriages of any kind were sternly frowned upon. In fact, they were vigorously opposed and discouraged by a very conservative Indian society in general. That meant marriages that were inter-caste, inter-racial, and, among Christians, even inter-denominational were considered taboo. This may explain why Anglo-Indians were often regarded as second class citizens by many Indians at the time. They were seen as the by-product of mixed marriages.

For example, in India, the Hindu caste system was, and still is to a great extent, prevalent among the vast majority of Hindus. The caste system was based upon the type of work one did. If, for instance, you were a priest or an educator you fell into the highest cast—you were categorized as a Brahmin. If you were a warrior or ruler, you were a Kshatriya; a merchant or trader, a Vaisya; an unskilled labourer, a Sudra; a sweeper or cleaner, an outcast or untouchable. Later, Mahatma Gandhi renamed the last group Harijans meaning People of God. According to this inflexible caste system, you were born into a certain caste and were not permitted to change it. You stayed with it for life. Also, you were not allowed to marry someone from another caste. In the 1920’s this was prohibited and deemed socially unacceptable. Fortunately, however, young Indians of today are rapidly changing to a more modern attitude of freedom of choice.

The Indian social structure at the time also dictated that a Hindu, regardless of caste, could not marry a Muslim, a Christian or a person from any other religion. The Muslims and Christians thought the same way about marrying outside their respective religions. Therefore, marriages typically took place only within one’s caste, religion and social status.

Years later, Indian converts to Christianity (Indian Christians) would still enquire about the caste of the person their son or daughter was about to marry. In the early 1960’s, while I was teaching in New Delhi, I came to know a young fellow named Anton. He was in his twenties and had a great job with Prentice Hall. We met through mutual friends. Both of Anton’s parents were Christians and medical doctors in Mumbai. They were obviously well-educated and well-to-do upper-class Indians. When he announced to them that he was about to marry Irene, a lovely Anglo-Indian girl whom we knew, his parents’ cross examination began: What caste did she belong to? Was she Catholic or Protestant? And on and on it went. Eventually, Anton married Irene without his parents’ blessings or approval.

Unfortunately, this same social attitude also prevailed within the small Christian community in India, as it did in most other countries. Christians were expected to marry Christians, but only within the same denomination. For example, a Catholic needed to marry a Catholic; an Anglican needed to marry an Anglican, etc. Inter-denominational marriages among Christians were extremely rare and required special dispensation. Even with the dispensation, they were still discouraged and severely frowned upon.

So, with Mom being a Roman Catholic and Dad a Methodist, right there they encountered a big obstacle to their union. Their ethnic differences were not questioned. Much discussion and debate followed on their denominational differences. Finally, one fine day, the Catholic parish priest opened the door just a little bit for Dad, by turning to him and saying, Listen, the best I can do is this. If you are willing to sign a document in which you agree to raise all your children as Catholics, I will allow the marriage to proceed.

Dad, of course, seeing the chink in the door, jumped in with both feet. Sure, Father, I’ll sign it. Mom’s face lit up. She was tired of all the debate and discussion that had gone on. Even the priest seemed relieved and promptly proceeded to find the appropriate form for Dad to sign. Meanwhile, Dad added, But I have to be completely honest with you, Father. That agreement is not worth the paper it is written on. No one is going to tell me how to raise my children. The priest shrugged his shoulders but said nothing. And so, the joyful wedding proceeded soon after.

Mom and Dad’s Wedding

A short time later, the babies started to arrive. First, they had Rendle, Elston, and Austin: three boys in a row and in that order. At this point, things were starting to become a little hectic on the home front. Dad’s job with the railway often required him to be away from home for three or four days at a time. This was obviously not conducive to family life, happiness, and the well-being of a young, growing family. So, in the best interests of his young family, Dad resigned from his job at the railway. It was a job he really enjoyed.

Dad must have had a streak of the entrepreneur in him. Within a few short weeks of resigning from the railway, he burst onto the bus transportation scene. Mom and Dad pooled their resources together and started up their own small bus company. The business took off well and prospered for a while. Unfortunately, things came to a sudden grinding halt. This was a cash business and one of their trusted employees began to rob them blind. After that, they sold the business. Subsequently, Dad applied for a supervisory position with the government-run arms and ammunition factory in Cossipore, a suburb of Calcutta. Perhaps because of Dad’s British army background, he got the job right away. And so, the family relocated from Bangalore to the Calcutta (Kolkata) area.

After several years in Cossipore, and a few more children later, the family moved to a town called Kharagpur which also lies in the outskirts of Calcutta. It was here that I was born and made my first appearance onto the world stage! I was now the eighth child in the family. But, wait. The babies did not stop with me. Four more followed after me. Mom had fourteen pregnancies in all. Sadly, two were stillborn. The other twelve were healthy, bouncing little bundles of … dare I say, JOY! I was once told by a Hindu gentleman that because his culture believed children were blessings from God, the more children you had, the more you were blessed. Well, dear old Mom and Dad sure had an abundance of blessings from God. I like to believe that I was one of those blessings. I hope so!

A major contributing factor to the existence of large families in those days was the doctrine of the Catholic Church on procreation. They believed couples needed to allow nature to take its course. This meant that birth control of any kind was prohibited. Abstinence, both before and after marriage, was preached from every Catholic pulpit and was deemed to be the order of the day. They preached that sex was meant only for procreation and for no other purpose. Any Catholic who failed to follow this edict was a sinner and needed to go to confession. As a result, the good old legendary, large Catholic families evolved. This Church doctrine also had the undesired added side effect of reducing attendance in church. It seemed that many Catholics stayed away from church, either because of a guilty conscience or out of sheer defiance.

Early Childhood

Yes, I was the eighth born in a family of twelve children. I had five older brothers, two older sisters, one younger brother, and three younger sisters. Most of us had nicknames, or sometimes we just abbreviated each other’s names. There was Ren, or Rendle, the oldest sibling. I’m guessing he was about fifteen years older than me. Rendle was really quite handsome. He had blond hair and blue eyes. He exercised regularly and tried to live a clean, healthy life. He never smoked or drank. And, but for his short fuse and quick temper, he would have been a great catch for any nice young lady.

Elston was the second oldest. I believe he would have been about twelve or thirteen years my senior. We had no nickname for him. In fact, I knew little about him or what precipitated his severance and departure from our family, as it occurred before I was even born. On the odd occasion that reference was made of him, it was always with a negative connotation such as the black sheep of the family. I remain puzzled to this day about Elston’s story.

Austy (Austin) was next in line. He was on the short side, about five foot five. Like Rendle, he kept fit by exercising regularly. He had a nice tanned complexion and a warm, friendly smile. His hair was brown, and he kept it slightly on the long side. His eyes matched the colour of his hair and they sparkled with intelligence and mischief. He was our own early version of the TV character, MacGyver. If any of us had a problem, Austin had the solution. I found him to be kind and helpful when he was available. So, obviously, when I was growing up, I found him to be the polar opposite of Rendle.

Gwen (Gwendolyn) and Thelma (no nickname) were my two lovely older sisters. Gwen was the first girl born into our family, bringing Mom and Dad great joy. Thelma followed Gwen and was the fifth born in our now expanding family. I always thought my two older sisters were very pretty, each in their own way. Gwen had a light complexion and brown hair. She took good care of herself. She was short like my mother: I would guess about five foot two. And she was always on the pleasantly plump side. She was also very sweet, soft spoken, and easy to get along with. She was a real homebody. Gwen rarely left home and when she did, it was to go to work (she was a nursery school teacher) or to attend the Presbyterian Church on Sundays.

I thought of my oldest sister, Gwen, as a second mother to us. Whenever dear old Mom was hospitalized, because she was delivering another baby, or she was sick, Gwen would spring into action and take over running the house. I must say, even though we often tried our luck, for the most part, all of us toed the line and listened to Gwen as we would Mom.

As for my second oldest sister, Thelma, in my opinion she was the prettiest of all my sisters. She had a lovely clear fair complexion, a sharp nose, a pointed chin, hazel eyes and brown hair. Thelma was always lean and slim. She usually wore her hair in a high pony tail or in a bun. She too was a school teacher and always conducted herself as such. One interesting characteristic Thelma had was that she could be very inflexible. Once her mind was made up, there was no moving her. She could be as stubborn as a mule. At those times when